Page 49 of Brutal Serpent

“Is there any reason I wouldnotcome on a picnic with my wife?” he asked coldly.

Mr. Elton hastened to reassure him that of course he did not mean that, that was not what he had meant at all. Mrs. Elton was carefully not looking at me, but I knew that with the addition of my husband this was no longer a relaxed afternoon.

But of course they could not refuse the most powerful man in the county wanting to go on a picnic with his wife, so we walked down to the meadow.

The stream made a gorgeous picture, light and bright, the afternoon sunshine hitting it in a way that made it gleam and sparkle, the leafy green trees dappled with sunlight behind.

I tried to focus on my drawing, my hands trembling slightly as they held the colored pens.

Our whole party faced the stream, Mr. and Mrs. Elton sharing drawing implements as they set up their sketchbooks. Servants took out the cold meats and set thick-cut country breads and fragrant cheese to the side.

I felt St. Erth brush my sleeve as he moved beside me and I tried not to shiver as I felt the brief heated touch of his bare skin on mine.

I had always been proud of my drawing skills, but my hand didn’t feel steady.

My husband lay down in the grass beside me, his long powerful legs stretched out in front of him. I wondered why he didn’t godosomething. Couldn’t he go chat with Mr. Elton, take the dogs out for a walk, join his friends hunting ptarmigans?

I studiously ignored him, concentrating on getting that crystalline blue of the stream just right, the varied colors of the pink and golden and purple wildflowers, and I felt his hand come up and take one of my heavy curls that had fallen from my updo.

“Look at me,” he said.

I stiffened. “I can see you,” I replied, my voice sounding small.

His hand moved, twining the curl around his finger, then he curved his other fingers into my updo, digging into my scalp.

“I saidlook at me,” he bit out.

I twisted my head sideways, barely able to move with how tightly he held my hair.

St. Erth was too close to me, leaning back against a tree, the sunshine gleaming on his blonde hair, his eyes too blue, the curve of his lips too close.

He didn’t smile when I turned my head, but his fingers tightened further on my scalp.

“Sing something to me,” he said.

“Here?” I whispered.

“I want to hear your voice,” he replied.

Feeling a bit embarrassed, I started singing a little country tune in a low voice, and I heard the Viscount’s satisfied rumble. The Eltons glanced back at us and I heard them join in, Mr. Elton’s deep baritone and Mrs. Elton’s sweet alto blending in with my soprano tones.

I heard my husband adjust himself back against the tree, but he kept that one hand on my curl, his fingers twined in my hair, and anytime I turned away from him too much or looked at my sketchbook too much he tugged painfully on the lock of my hair, so I knew what he wanted.

My attention. All of my attention.

And he wasn’t going to share with anyone.

When Mr. Elton asked me for a little knife to sharpen his pencils, since they had forgotten theirs, the Viscount took it from me to hand it to the vicar.

“You know he’s married,” I whispered furiously in an undertone when Mr. Elton had gone back to sit by the stream.

“And?” my husband asked, pulling on my hair so hard my head ached. “Who wouldn’t wantyou, Kitten? Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m not encouraging anyone,” I muttered.

“Do you wish I was a sweet husband like the vicar?” he asked, moving so close that his shoulder brushed up against my thigh.

I said nothing, afraid of either answer.

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